


kizuna (絆)

by nepentheosileus



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Character Analysis, Jealousy, M/M, Mentions of Zaizen Aoi, Obsession, Spectre's "death", Takes place around episode 37
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:58:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13606032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nepentheosileus/pseuds/nepentheosileus
Summary: Life with the man dubbed Revolver is like a game of Russian Roulette;You never know when you'll get shot.





	kizuna (絆)

  
> _Life with the man dubbed REVOLVER is like a game of Russian Roulette._

 

* * *

 

 

In the years that _SPECTRE_ has known _REVOLVER_ he’s come to acknowledge three things, a habit that he was never quite able to pick up from his master but still employed when it occurred to him. Holding out his fingers, he ticks off the reasons right down to his ring finger;

 

One. He acknowledges that a bond is even more fragile than the petals of a plant in the wind. You can hold on for dear life, clutch to it, plead, but no matter what you do or how you feel, once that bond has been severed there is no way to return it to its former glory. _SPECTRE_ values his bond with _REVOLVER_ , however long it may last.

 

 _Forever_ , _he_ _hopes_.

 

Two. _SPECTRE_ acknowledges that his unending admiration and respect for _REVOLVER_ may be tinged with a bit of something else. While obsession could very well be the word he used, another comes to mind, blotting it out and taking its place. Once he thinks it he can never forget it. Love. _Love love love--_

 

_He loves his master._

 

Three. Even if he were to lay his life down at _REVOLVER’s_ feet, bare to him his very soul, _REVOLVER_ would never return his love so long as _PLAYMAKER_ is still standing, still fighting. That’s it; that has to be the reason why _REVOLVER_ won’t so much as look at him anymore. There is no other explanation.

 

 _Don’t be selfish_.

 

* * *

 

 

> _SPECTRE lifts the gun, nestles the barrel beneath his chin, and his finger coils around the trigger. The resounding click leaves him light-headed._

 

* * *

 

 

He watches _PLAYMAKER_ often, counting his flaws off on his fingers until he’s run out of fingers to count with; he moves onto his toes after a moment of surprise -- because why ever would his master, so perfect and without fault or foul, be so smitten with a boy who is so clearly wound together at the seams with a thread that threatens to snap at any second? -- and he quickly runs out of toes as well.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ is a fool with a child’s conviction. He lays his past on his sleeve for anyone to read and take pity, then berates them for ever thinking they could understand him. And really it isn’t so bad, that supposed “tragedy” he speaks of; _SPECTRE_ had learned how to make the most of it, had benefited from it greatly, while poor little _PLAYMAKER_ decided his only option was to play victim.

 

Yes, _SPECTRE_ decided. He hated _PLAYMAKER_.

 

Sometimes, in the dead of night when he’s kept up by thoughts of _REVOLVER_ , he thinks about the boy behind the face of _PLAYMAKER_. If he thinks hard enough would he be able to remember his true face? They were “rescued” together, once upon a time, so surely that face is lurking somewhere in his memories.

 

He wonders who _PLAYMAKER_ is, and he wonders, if he ever saw him in passing on the streets of Den City, would he still hate him so? Would he turn around, fists clenched, and deck the boy right in the mouth? Curse him, bloody him, tear him apart?

 

All for the sake of his master?

 

Would he kill the true _PLAYMAKER_ , the coward behind the screen, and leave _REVOLVER_ to eventually forget the three syllables that were once whispered upon every duelist’s lips?

 

* * *

 

 

 _> The metal is cool against his neck. SPECTRE pulls the trigger once again, and relishes in the victory that his life still remains_.

 

* * *

 

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ , who would see to his master’s death.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ , who would tear everything his master believes in to shreds.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ , who is young and weak and undeserving of his master’s attentions.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ , who stole the _IGNIS_.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ , who ruins everything -- their plans, and perhaps worse yet, _REVOLVER’s_ favor over _SPECTRE_.

 

* * *

 

 

_> The gun clicks, empty. He pulls it away, grateful for the next breath he takes in, and casts the gun aside._

 

* * *

 

 

It’s always about _PLAYMAKER_ , never about _SPECTRE_ , and he can’t stand it. He just wants his master to look at him, to accept the man who stands loyally at his side and remember that he and _SPECTRE_ hold a bond, a familiarity.

 

He wants _REVOLVER_ to acknowledge him.

 

He wants _REVOLVER_ to love him.

 

He wants _REVOLVER_.

 

* * *

 

 

_> This time, as he raises the gun to his head, he grows nervous. Halfway there. Any time now the gun will go off. He pulls the trigger with a trembling finger; he lives another day._

 

* * *

 

 

Yet still he is loyal. He carries out his master’s orders without question, happy to be of service to him. For _REVOLVER’s_ sake he must banish these selfish thoughts.

 

Yes. Someday _REVOLVER_ will give him the order, and when he succeeds in destroying _PLAYMAKER_ once and for all, then will his master look at him. _REVOLVER_ will praise him, perhaps reward him, and just before they all blow to smithereens, sacrificed to the network and torn limb from limb, he’ll stand once more by _REVOLVER’s_ side. This thought comforts him.

 

 _SPECTRE_ waits for the day to come when he will finally swipe _PLAYMAKER’s_ head from atop his shoulders.

 

* * *

 

 

 _> Click. The sound shakes him to his very core, sending a shiver down his spine, and he knows that there's a fifty percent chance that the next time will be his last_.

 

* * *

 

 

His patience pays off.

 

Days pass, much like days have a tendency to do, and finally there comes an order. His hatred bubbles to the surface, eager, determined, and _SPECTRE_ hides a manic grin as he bows low to the ground.

 

_“The time has come for us to take the network by force. Enemies will surely oppose you. You are to cut them down and ensure our victory.”_

 

_“Yes, REVOLVER-sama.”_

 

He delights in the fall of _BLUE ANGEL_ , for while she is nowhere near as important as _PLAYMAKER_ he can’t help but feel a connection to her. His curiosity quickly turns to rage, and furious, he pushes her off of her cloud and stands watch over her descent to the ground below. And then finally, just as her essence shatters into nothingness, he arrives.

 

 _PLAYMAKER_ is here, fresh for the picking, and who is _SPECTRE_ to deny him the ending he so temptingly begs for? They fight; biting words are exchanged, wills weakened and stomped into the dirt, and before long the scent of victory is strong on the wind.

 

As his prize draws nearer, _SPECTRE_ grows perhaps a bit too confident. For while he sees _PLAYMAKER_ as nothing but an obstacle, he somehow manages to forget just how powerful a duelist the boy can be.

 

 _SPECTRE_ feels a pain like no other, an agony that claws at his chest and demands to make him feel. He’s felt it once before; at that time, when the sun touched his face for the first time in months, and his world crumbled around him as his eyes landed on the dead stump of a tree he valued like a mother’s caress. He’d cried then and he cries now, his gaze unable to leave the sight of fire consuming his most precious thing.

 

For a moment he forgets _REVOLVER_ , forgets his promise to him. It only lasts a moment, but it is enough.

 

The bond has been severed.

 

And once a bond has been severed, it can never return to how it once was. He will burn for his failure, for his betrayal, and as the fire creeps up his legs, his arms, evaporating the tears that slip fast from his cheeks, he can’t help but smile.

 

* * *

 

 

_> SPECTRE lifts the gun, nestles the barrel beneath his chin, and when his finger coils around the trigger of the revolver, he promptly blows his brains out._

 

 


End file.
